Strangely (and in keeping with that particular law that governed my kind eg. sods) I found my way back to my hotel directly and without trouble. The feeling of the cobbles through my worn trainers making me feel like I was plagiarising the work of some famous detective dramatist. As if I was on auto pilot I plodded on until I found myself at the church of St Giles, my hotel was just down the road. But a sharp pain in my foot brought me to my senses. Broken glass was all over the road and I certainly felt that through my pauper’s footwear. Carefully hobbling over to a bench I did what I shouldn’t have and began to ease a particularly big shard of glass from the confines of my right foot. Blood spurted as I realised that I probably wasn’t helping matters, but then what happened next was worse.
What passed for sunlight on that gloomy day was blocked out as three men stood in front of me. The two flankers sat down either side of me, nice and cosy but their halitosis put a crimp their unwelcome over friendliness.
‘Mister Morgan?’ The suited figure in the middle asked, he was more upmarket than the two locals he’d brought with him.
Resigning myself to the fact that I didn’t care anymore I said….
‘Yes…’
The two thugs moved, one grabbed the right leg, the other my foot and twisted the piece of glass…. All of a sudden I cared again…….
‘Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh, for Cliff’s sake! What the f….’
‘Guess what mister Morgan? You are coming with us, we’d like a word with you.’
‘Okay, okay, fine, just get your mates of my . AAAAAAAaaaarrrgh, gett’im of me foot.’
With a nod from ‘the Suit’, the second thug stopped twisting the glass and wrenched it straight from my bloody pediment. The other mook also released me.
It was strange, I was helped to my feet, or foot rather. Dripping blood onto the cobbles the thugs helped me from the bench and down Laangramstraat, past my hotel (where I stopped to yell in pain as I put too much weight on my poorly foot) and down a series of similar streets.
Finally a shabby green door, wretched with peeling paint and poor for lack of care, was pushed open and I was shoved roughly into the gloom beyond. A few dusty chairs and a table made of woodworm that gave the subtle suggestion that this piece had once been a tree. I took the liberty of sitting down.
‘Do you think that you could get me a first aid kit or something? I’m bleeding everywhere and in some pain.’ How remarkably British of me. Manners in the face of adversity. If only my captors had been as composed as I had been. The ‘Suit’ was immediately alarmed,
‘Charles, get out there now! Make sure that there is no trail here and if there is clear it up! Quickly!’ He turned to the other man – ‘You keep a watch while I get bandages for this bloody foot.’ (A strange British-ism from an apparently Flemish chap. My foot, however, was very bloody indeed).
The ‘Suit’ left through another rickety door into a different part of the house while Thug #1, or Charles (pronounced ‘Sharl’) as he was called, went out into the street. This left me unbound with only one captor. Admittedly I had a very bad foot but that never stopped Lord Byron from having a successful career as a dancer.
Raising myself from the chair, I placed my weight on the healthier leg. My captor stepped forward as if to push me back down, but I had other plans. Reaching for his outstretched arm as if for support I took a hold of him. Then shift my weight to my right heel I pulled him round, yelling as I did so. Not for some martial effect did I yell but for the pain that was coursing through my right leg. My captor met with the table, which he fell through with some satisfying effect as wood crumpled and dust in great clouds arose. Then my leg collapsed and I fell on top of him, yet I took the opportunity to place a sharp elbow into the man’s crotch. It was his turn to groan in pain. I pushed him away as I tried to stand up, the door was only a few staggers away. Swinging with my bloodied foot the floored menace was convinced that he should stay down and feign unconsciousness a bit longer.
Two short staggers and I was out, but there was Charles to get past and he had a broom. With only one option I legged it (literally) the other way down the street. A quick shout in Flemish and I know the pursuit had begun.
Running on cobbles was never easy with bloody pads, as I was discovering. It was a matter of seconds before Charles and the ‘Suit’ had caught up with me, broom handle wedged horizontally under my chin and I was shoved against a picturesque whitewashed wall. Things were definitely looking bleak. A couple of sudden blows to my stomach convinced me that I may well want to talk, but I didn’t really know anything, but perhaps we could have a cup of tea and talk about it. Two more similar blows suggested that such an option was viable but not just yet….
There was thud and then another thud, the pressure fell from my neck and my two tormentors fell to the floor. The cavalry had arrived, there was Inspector Lehrman, a police officer and Mrs. Schlandstraang, an excellent hotelier and conscientious citizen.
‘M Morgan,’ she said, ‘with the company you keep and the mess in your room I do not think I want you in my hotel anymore.’
‘However Monsieur,’ spoke Lehrman, ‘ It is that or the cells, so Mme. Schlandstraang is willing to let you stay a little longer.’ Which drew a scowl from the poor, stressed woman’s mouth.
‘M. Morgan,’ Lehrman continued, ‘Let us go back to the station and I will tell you what is going on.’